Je ne parle pas de Français
by BucketsOfCrazyLove
Summary: AU. FrUK. Francis and Arthur have gone out for drinks. Arthur strangely enough is sober. Now guess who isn't, and what happens when you mix too much wine, a seductive Frenchman, a grumpy Englishman, and music. Oneshot newly turned twoshot. Smut. Very smut.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:Okay, this is what happens when I get obsessed with wanting to write a drunk!Francis fanfiction. **

**R&R. Translations at the end of the page.**

Francis very rarely got drunk. Almost never. It was always Arthur that downed and downed and downed alcohol, and it was always Francis that carried him home. And it was always the Brit who embarrassed himself and it was always Francis who shushed him and calmed him down. These times, they had become almost routine; a Frenchman dragging a loud, drunk Englishman out of a pub, or a bar. Well, this wasn't one of these times.

This time, Francis had had too much to drink, his blond hair slipping from their bun, framing his face lazily, licking at his shoulders, and spilling around his neck, his blue eyes half-lidded and a smile spilled across his face like he was either too tired to wipe it off, or too content with what he saw.

Arthur rubbed at his temples and tried again. "You have to stop now. I mean it, you moronic frog. I won't be holding your hair when you puke when we get home, or make you coffee in the morning." The Frenchman just smiled wider. "Oh, mais, mon cher rosbif, tu sais que tu le vraiment feras." Arthur narrowed his eyes at him.

"I don't speak frog, you git." And that was a lie, and they both knew it, but they had pretended it was the truth, just because Arthur was too stubborn, and Francis liked games. They had pretended that was the truth until that moment, when a very drunk and very much, inappropriately much, sexy Francis chuckled and curled his fingers underneath his jaw, tucking his head so it didn't sway form side to side. You see, Francis wasn't an angry drunk like Arthur was. He didn't rant and he didn't scream and he didn't kick. Oh, no, he was worse. He became loose-limbed, and seductive-more than usually-and he spoke only in French.

"Oui, oui, je sais, je sais, mon cher. Tu parle pas Français. J'ai entendu. Je ne suis pas sourd..." And he chuckled some more, finally admitting in his sarcastic way that he in fact, did know of Arthur's stupid plan of making the Frenchman speak only in English. Because it would hardly be appropriate if he lit up every time his roommate threw some French in that already husky, lyrical voice of his. Arthur may have cracked some day and if that happened, it would be a disaster. A most likely painful disaster.

So, the first day they had met, in that dim hallway, outside the apartment that now housed them both, he had said (more like screeched) that he didn't understand French. The problem was that the fucking frog hadn't believed him. But he hadn't spoken to him in French. Had only used English. And again, the problem was that Francis went completely amphibious when he was drunk. As much of a frog as one can get.

Suddenly, Arthur was shaken from his thoughts, when Francis got up and grabbed his hand pulling him up. He was swaying, and dancing, and smiling that god-awful Cheshire cat grin. "Danse avec moi, Arthur. S'il te plaît " Arthur's eyes widened. "Wh-what?! Are you m-mad?! You b-bloody fr-frog!" Francis laughed at his angry spluttering, and continued swinging his hips to the rhythm.

"S'il te plaît, mon Arhtur." Francis pulled the unwilling Englishman to his feet and dragged him to the dance floor, ignoring all kinds of swearing, curses and protests. He pulled Arthur in front of him, swung his whole body to the music, throwing his head back and singing. "But baby there you go again, there you go again, making me love you. Yeah , I stop using my head, using my head, let it all go. Got you stuck on my body, on my body like a tattoo..."

Arthur stared at Francis as the Frenchman raised his hands over his head and rotated his hips to the rhythm. He was entranced. He had never seen the other blond so out of control. He was a magical creature like this. All wild, and belonging to no one. That's when Arthur admitted to himself that he wanted him. Wanted to touch him, kiss him, glide his tongue over his neck, his jaw. Wanted to tunnel his fingers through hair he _knew_ were just as soft as they appeared, like Francis was doing right then, still dancing so, _so _beautifully. "So I cross my heart and I hope to die..." And he was singing too, his voice as perfect and seductive as the rest of him. He was laughing now, and throwing his arms around the green eyed boy's neck, bringing their bodies close, so close, moving them in sync with the song.

Long blond eyelashes fell over perfect cheekbones, and Arthur felt disappointed there for a second, because he could no longer see those blue, blue eyes. But then Francis was tangling his fingers in his hair, and pressing them even closer than before, and murmuring "Chante pour moi, mon Arthur" practically against his lips.

And Arthur, cursing himself mentally sang with Francis on the next verse. "And I know that I said it a million times. But I'll only stay with you one more night... Yeah, baby, gimme one more night..."

And so, they sang and danced until the song came to an end, another one beginning, Francis throwing his head back and laughing, twirling himself around, plastering his back to the Englishman's chest, grinding his hips against Arthur's.

Arthur sucked in an abrupt breath, as Francis brought a hand to the back of the British man's neck and threw his head back, resting it on his shoulder as he sang at him, the most fucking seductive look a person could muster on his face. This wasn't the same as before. This was practically sex on the fucking dance floor. This- this was too much. Arthur stood motionless.

"Dirty babe. You see these shackles, baby I'm your slave. I'll let you whip me if I misbehave..." Francis' voice drifted to Arthur's ears, so low, so seductive. Why the hell did he bloody speak like that?! Long fingers tangled at the back of his hair, hot breath fanned against the side of his neck. Arthur closed his eyes for a second, and in that brief amount of time, he decided.

"Ah, fuck it." Hands on the other's hipbones, long spine against his chest, Arthur followed the Frenchman's movements, letting the other lead him to a sexy snake-like dance. Arthur knew, he _knew_, that Francis was piss drunk, or else he wouldn't have danced with him. He wouldn't have _touched _him if he had been sober.

You see, Arthur, as he himself knew, wasn't particularly beautiful. No, he was more like on the ugly side. And even with the face of an angel-which he didn't have- his eyebrows still ruined the whole thing. And Francis _was_, in fact, beautiful. All long pale limbs, soft blond hair, sparkling blue eyes, perfectly slopped nose. So, why would he even bother with someone like Arthur and his caterpillar eyebrows? It still seemed strange that the Frenchman had deemed him worthy enough of rooming with him.

"Arthur. Qu'est-ce qui s'est passé?" Francis pulled away from Arthur, and Arthur instantly missed the weight of his back against his chest. The Frenchman stood in front of him and held both of Arthur's hands on his warm palms. "Est-ce que ça va ?" Instinctively Arthur shook his head, but then nodded furiously, trying to cover it. Of course he was okay. "I'm fine, you bloody frog. It's none of your business, anyway."

Francis laughed, and danced back into Arthur's arms, trailing his fingertips over the Brit's racing pulse at his neck. "Ah, mais ce n'est pas vrai. _Tu _es mon affaire, mon Arthur." Arthur squinted his eyes at the too-French man. Of course this was all rubbish. Francis didn't know what he was saying. He was as drunk as a German during Oktoberfest. But still, Arthur's heart fluttered miserably. So, he scoffed.

"I told you to stop using that disgusting language of yours, how many bloody times now?" The answer to everything: Pretend you're pissed. Worked for him just fucking fine. But of course the Frenchman was onto him. He understood.

Chuckling, he played with the neckline of the Englishman's shirt, dipping his fingers inside the fabric, caressing his collar bones and the very top of his chest. Arthur had to clench his teeth so that he didn't shiver.

"Tu es un menteur, monsieur Kirkland." He tsked, and brought his lips closer to Arthur's ear. "Le mensonge, c'est une chose terrible, cher. Une chose horrible." Arthur's breath hitched in his throat. Bloody hell, bloody hell! Francis knew he was lying! Bollocks! He pulled back, but didn't manage to get far, Francis' arms were around his neck, effectively locking them together.

"F-Francis, I don't think th-this is a very good idea. And you're drunk. We... we better get going." But it didn't look like Francis was listening to him. His eyes were closed and he was moving again. He wasn't in time with the fast music, he danced as if they were moving to the slow rhythm of a blues song, although he did sing. "Make me come alive, come on and turn me on. Touch me, save my life, come on and turn me on. I'm too young to die, come on and turn me on..." He went on singing softly the lyrics, now his forehead touching Arthur's.

And Arthur felt as if this was the most intimate he had ever gotten with anyone, even though he had slept with various people of various ages and both sexes and even though ten minutes before, Francis had been all over him. No, this was the closer he had gotten with anyone, soft breathed words caressing his lips, his eyes closed, a forehead touching another one, loose silky hair brushing his face.

"Je te veux, mon Arthur. Je veux ton corps, et ton âme, et ton cœur. Je veux ton amour, parce que le mien est en toi." Arthur's eyes flew open and his heart stumbled to a halt, skipped a bit and then started again, beating harder and faster than ever before. They weren't in the middle of a club anymore, the world around them faded away, the crowds of dancing crowds disappeared. It was just the two of them, and those unbelievable, stupid, crazy French words.

Arthur contemplated for a moment what he should do. Should he pretend? Should he run? Or... maybe... should he say it back?

"F-Fran-Francis... Oh, b-bloody hell..." Clumsy words tumbled involuntarily out of Arthur's mouth, him not able to stop them. He would have said, would have slipped, other meaningless rubbish in there, if suddenly soft, warm lips weren't touching his own chapped ones. He didn't pull back, however foolish it was to stay there. No, he twisted his fingers in the fabric of Francis' shirt, clenching his hands into fists.

He kissed the other man with a fervor he'd never had before, his heart nearly bursting out of his chest, it was beating so, so hard. He parted his lips, kissing Francis hard, and long, and desperate, because he knew this wouldn't happen again. This was his only chance to be this close to the Frenchman, their breath mingling, their hearts beating in sync.

Francis tangled his fingers inside Arthur's hair, and kissed him back, his tongue pushing against the other's, as if in a crazy dance. They were too close, and neither minded. They didn't need air, they didn't need anything, but touching the other.

Arthur raised himself to his tiptoes pulling himself closer to Francis, while dragging his teeth over the Frenchman's bottom lip. Francis swallowed, and rolled his tongue around Arthur's.

"Don't pull away. Don't. Don't stop." Arthur mumbled the words in the kiss, and they tumbled around and over heavy breaths, and gasps. Francis' French response sounded frighteningly, similarly breathless. "Je ne peux pas arrêter, Arthur. Je veux pas." So, the kiss, the unbelievable, incredible kiss, went on and on and on, until their lips were nearly bruised, almost numb, and tingling. But they still both needed more.

Francis pulled back enough so he could say "Il faut qu'on rentre. Tout de suite." So Arthur, seeing no point in pretending he didn't understand French anymore, grabbed Francis' hand, and pulled him with him, off the dance floor, out of the club, in the street. They were practically running by the time they reached the apartment complex.

Arthur was fumbling with the key, trying to jam it into the lock, while Francis had practically wrapped himself around him, trailing hot open-mouthed kisses on his neck. The Brit, moaned loud enough, that he had to slam his hand over his mouth so that the neighbors didn't hear them and come out. "Francis, bloody hell, let me open the fucking door for a minute, you git!"

Francis chuckled airily in his ear, but finally stopped kissing his neck. Arthur opened the door, with a shout of victory, and they tumbled in, slamming the door behind them. They were kissing again, not a second lost, and they moved around like that, united, as they tried to reach the bedroom, without detaching themselves from one another.

They bumped on the couch, crashed into chairs, and hit walls, but they managed entering Arthur's bedroom without cutting off the kiss for a spare second. And anyway, who the bloody hell needed oxygen when they had _this_? This magic, this connection, a beautiful, charming Frenchman at their lips and said Frenchman's hands roving all over them? Who needed _anything _else?

Clothes were discarded, falling away, crumbling to the floor, revealing translucent pale skin, long limbs, and everything, _everything_ Arthur had dreamed of, thought of, pictured with his mind's eye weren't in the slightest way as good as this was.

They fell to the bed unceremoniously, like raindrops falling to the ground, like they had nowhere else to go, the only logical place was there, just there.

Arthur ended up on top, and he hadn't expected it. He was unsure of what he'd do next, of what Francis liked, of how to make the Frenchman moan out loud, beg for more, scream his name. Francis would know what to do with him. He was the personification of the god of sex come to earth to seduce poor innocent Englishmen, after all, thought Arthur sarcastically.

He ran his hands down Francis' chest, smooth skin hot against his fingertips. Francis shivered, and wrapped his arms and legs around Arthur, bringing them flush against each other, and room to breathe was barely there anymore.

"Oú est le–" "D-drawer." Arthur moaned the answer, not even waiting for Francis to finish his sentence. He practically dove for the drawer, Francis still wrapped around him. He pulled out a barely used bottle of lube.

He looked down at Francis, hesitating for a second, before the Frenchman smiled reassuringly up at him, and nodded. "Je te veux le plus près de moi possible." Each word was a breath that gave permission to Arthur.

So he coated his fingers in the cold liquid, and pressed them against Francis' entrance. He prepared the Frenchman as best as he could, the man underneath him squirmed and shook and eventually moaned. And then, then, they were one, they were together, Arthur sinking inside Francis, staying unmoving as he waited for his lover-lover, lover, _lover_, what a wonderful, brilliant word- to get used to him.

He brought their foreheads together, lacing their fingers, and pressing their joined hands to the mattress. He looked into blue, so blue, eyes, as he breathed slowly, taking the other's scent in, and that moment, that moment when they knew each other like no one had before was earth-shatteringly beautiful. "Maintenent, Arthur. S'il te plaît."

So, he did, moving, their bodies colliding, joined, crashing into one another.

It was like liquid fire, though Arthur. Like liquid fire running all over his body, scorching him, but at the same time leaving him at the completely intact. After so much time apart, denying each other, they were now as close as two human beings could get. It was intoxicating.

Francis' neck arched back, his head bowing back, exposing his throat to Arthur, who sucked and nibbled at it, biting at the skin, but kissing it, to take the pain away. And then he trailed his kisses to that damn _magic _French mouth and joined his lips with Francis' yet again. "Je t'aime. Je t'aime de tout mon cœur, Arthur. Mon Arthur." The words tasted like wine and truth and _Francis_ against Arthur's tongue, as the Frenchman gasped them against his mouth.

He looked down at the man under him, around him, inside him, everywhere near him. Big dark blue eyes, trembling lips, hair in a complete disarray splayed around his head on the pillow. And he knew that feeling he got when he saw the Frenchman, when he heard him, when he felt him was love.

"I love you too. More than I want to admit." And yes, yes! It was the truth, and it hurt, and felt wonderful at the same time. And as he hit something inside of Francis, the Frenchman shuddered and clenched his eyes shut, and gripped at his shoulders, and Arthur, hearing his name called by that breathless heavily accented voice sent him over the edge, clutching at Francis as if for dear life.

They collapsed on the sheets, still all entangled in one another, and Francis curled himself around Arthur, putting his head on the other's shoulder. "Je t'aime, Arthur. Bonne nuit..." and yawning he drifted off to sleep, as Arthur ran his fingers through his hair. And everything was right in his world.

**A/N: Man, this was a bitch to write. But I'm satisfied with the results. And damn happy I'm learning French. Which I hope I wrote down correctly, with no grammatical mistakes. Now, translations(damn, those are gonna be a lot...) :**

**-Oh, mais, mon cher rosbif, tu sais que tu le feras: Oh, but, my dear rosbif, you know that you'll do them (yeah, I know that's kinda wrong, but I didn't know how else to put it.) **

**-Oui, oui, je sais, je sais mon cher. Tu parle pas de Français. J'ai entendu. Je suis pas sourd... : Yes, yes, I know, I know, my dear. You don't speak French. I heard. I'm not deaf...**

**-Danse avec moi. S'il te pla****î****t: Dance with me. Please**

**-Qu'est-ce qui s'est passé? :What happened?**

**-Est-ce que ça va ? :Are you okay?**

**-Ah, mais ce n'est pas vrai. Tu es mon affaire: Ah, but that's not true. You are my business**

**-Tu es un menteur. : You are a liar**

**-Le mensonge, c'est un chose terrible. Un chose horrible: The lie, it's a terrible thing. A horrible thing.**

**-Je te veux: I want you**

**-Je veux ton corps, et ton ****âme, ****et ton ****cœur. ****Je veux ton amour, parce que le mien est en toi. : I want your body and your soul and your heart. I want your love, because mine is with you.**

**-Je ne peux pas ****â****rreter. Je veux pas: I can't stop. I don't want to.**

**-Il faut qu'on rentre. Tout de suite: We have to go home. Right now**

**-Oú est le- :Where is the-**

**-Je te veux le plus prés de moi possible: I want you as close as you can come**

**-Je t'aime.: I love you**

**-Je t'aime de tout mon ****cœur: ****I love you with my whole heart**

**-Bonne nuit: Good night**

**Phew, that **_**was**_** a lot... **

**Hope you enjoyed the fic. Au revoir! **


	2. Morning After(Additional Chapter)

**A/N: Okay, ma peeps, this wasn't in the plan, but after a review of "Je ne parle pas de Français", in which Closet Cleaner pointed out that the previous chapter was slightly incomplete because , and I quote "Iggy ****did have that whole forever-alone-soliloquy the whole way through, and he was all 'he's only doing this because he's drunk! YY'." **

**So, I said, fuck, she's right! So I went and wrote this. And because I like writing drama, I wrote drama. So here we have "The morning after." Hope you like it, and that you're not very disappointed by the fact that this doesn't have any smut in it. (Sorry!)**

**Now, I also have to thank all you people that faved and reviewed the previous chapter. So, merci beaucoup, mes chers! And here we go!**

Morning After

Arthur woke up as rays of the sun hit his face. He didn't open his eyes though, frowning. He felt... warmer. Such warmth he hadn't felt he had been really, really young, his loneliness always leaving his heart cold. But now, now he was practically scorching.

He hid the side of his face to the pillow, turning it from the window. And then with the slight movement, a body moved against his own, lips pressing to the skin of his shoulder, light breath tickling his flesh. He froze. Then he remembered. Then he smiled to himself. But then, he remembered again.

So, his eyes flew open, and with a gasp he pulled himself away from Francis so abruptly he nearly fell to the floor, sheets all tangled around him. The other man was still sleeping on the bed, his blond hair splayed over the pillow, the sun playing with the soft colours of it, and passing through his too long eyelashes, as he shivered slightly because he didn't have a sheet to cover his body anymore.

Arthur scrambled up from the floor and as quietly as he could he covered Francis with the sheet. The Frenchman smiled in his sleep, and burrowed in the covers. Arthur stared at him. How could he be so beautiful and painful at the same time? And how could Arthur forget that Francis had been drunk? Would he be disgusted? Would he pretend nothing happened? Would he just brush it off, and find someone kinder, prettier, less British to satisfy him?

Arthur's eyes filled with tears, he lips trembling, and he clamped a hand over his mouth to stop his teeth from clattering together. He couldn't decide which option was worse and even thinking about it, he wanted to crawl in a corner, curl up and cry his eyes out.

He buried a hand in his hair and clenched it into a fist, as wet warm rivers glided down his cheeks. Francis would abandon him, like so many others had. And he couldn't even blame him. He wasn't exactly the most agreeable of people. But still, every time, every time a one night stand stayed just that, a meaningless fuck, it hurt. It hurt so bad.

Arthur's whole body was shaking, his knees knocking together from the force of it. He stepped back, almost falling to the floor again, and stumbled to the bathroom. He turned the tap on, so that the pouring water covered his miserable, pitiful sobs.

He had planned, when he had decided to hide from his heart in the bathroom, to actually take a shower, but he collapsed halfway there. He fell to his knees, his legs giving way under him, and his bony fingers clenched the sink, as loud broken sobs that began in his chest fell from his lips.

He let himself curl up in on himself, and wrap his arms around his once more cold body. He rested his head on the floor, his cheek pressing painfully against the freezing tile. He remembered how Francis had kissed him, how he had ran his long fingers down his back, how he had said he loved him. But the last one, those dreadful words, couldn't have been truthful. No, no, it wasn't that Francis was a liar. But... but how could _anyone_ love Arthur?

This time was going to be worse than any other, Arthur knew. Because this time around, his cold heart had actually opened up and let the exasperating Frenchman in. And with him, an endless ocean of feelings had flooded his soul, leaving him now as they drained away, cold and helpless once more. He knew that he wasn't going to forget this easily. In fact, he reckoned he was _never_ going to forget this. He had heard somewhere, possibly in a song, he didn't, "And there's no remedy for memory, your face is like a melody, it won't leave my head". And it was going to be true this time. Francis wasn't going to be one more faceless body. No, he was forever going to be the man who ripped Arthur's heart out.

Too distracted by his own thoughts and loud sobs, Arthur didn't notice that the door had flew open at once. He realised this when warm fingers touched his back and a soft murmur of "Mon Dieu, Arthur, what happened?" reached his ears. Arthur gasped and and backed away from him as quickly as possible. His back hit the bathtub, and sadly, he had nowhere else to go, as he stared in the surprised wide blue eyes of the Frenchman. He was staring at him, standing there in the bathroom, only his pants on, and Arthur clenched his teeth in pain.

"N-N-No-th-ing hap-pened, you g-git! L-leave me al-lone!" Arthur's answer barely made sense to him, the hick-ups and the sobs mingling his speech, blurring it to painful sounds, his breath hitching in every other letter.

Francis walked towards him slowly, as if he was approaching a wild beast, too afraid that sudden movements would scare him away. Arthur pressed back against the tub as much as he could, his spine colliding painfully with the porcelain. "Arthur." Soft spoken word, his name sounded right then. As soft as it'd never been before, and Arthur clenched his eyes shut, and bit his lip.

"Arthur, regarde moi. Look at me." Arthur shook his head, and kept his eyes stubbornly closed as tears escaped his eyelids. But then, those same tears that fell down his cheeks, were brushed away by gentle thumbs, as Francis cupped his face in his hands.

"Arthur, why are you crying? Tell me. I'll help you. Tell me." Arthur let a small bitter chuckle escape him. "Oh, so you're actually speaking English today" he commented, still bitterly, ignoring the question.

"Oui, mais je peux parler Français, si tu préfères." And Arthur drowned in a new wave of tears and sobs and hick-ups. "N-no. Don't. I... It's..." And he swallowed his own words, as his opened his eyes and looked right into concerned dark blue eyes. "Arthur. Please. Dit moi."

Arthur was surprised to see tears pulling in the corners of the other's eyes too, a desperate look covering his beautiful features. "You'll leave too, you b-bloody w-wanker! Th-that's why!" Francis' eyebrows shot up at Arthur's half whispered, half screeched statement. But then, his concern melted into a soft, soft smile.

"Oh, mon petit lapin, je ne t' abandonnerai jamais. Je t'aime."

"B-but why would you?! I... I'm h-horrible!" Francis pressed his lips against his in a soft chaste kiss. "Tu n'es pas horrible. I love you because you are beautiful and strong and defiant. And I love how your lip twitches every time you want to laugh but feel like you can't. And I love your eyebrows, because you wouldn't be Arthur without them, and I love how green your eyes are in the sunlight. And I want all that for myself. Pour toujours."

And Arthur wasn't crying anymore. He was staring in Francis' clear sincere gaze and he knew, he was sure now, that Francis was telling the truth now, and the previous night, and all the nights and mornings after, that were going to come.

"I... God, Francis, I love you so bloody much..." And then he was wrapped in strong arms, pressing his face close to Francis' chest, burying his nose in that sloping spot over his collar bone. He shut his eyes once more , and let the other man press him close to the warmth of his body, and pick him up, carrying him to the bedroom.

He laid him on the bed, slipping the sheets over his cold body, lying down flush against his back. And Arthur drifted off to sleep, and this time he was sure that when he woke up he wasn't going to cry. He was going to be warm again, and Francis was going to be next to him. For every night, and every morning.

**A/N: Well. Here we go with the translations again: **

**-Regarde moi: Look at me**

**-Oui, mais je peux parler de Français, si tu préfères: Yes, but I can speak French, if you prefer.**

**-Oh, mon petit lapin, je ne t' abandonnerai jamais. Je t'aime: Oh, my little rabbit, I will never abandon you. I love you.**

**-Tu n'es pas horrible: You aren't horrible**

**-Pour toujours: Forever. (Okay, it actually means 'for always' if you see it like that, but the overall meaning is forever, so...)**

**I realised now that my author's notes are bloody huge! But I have stuff to say, what can you do? So, I have to mention that the song in which Arthur is referring to is "Dark Paradise" by Lana Del Rey(the original version not the demo) . Obviously he overheard it from somewhere, because Arthur listens to Beatles, not Lana. Even though I like her songs. **

**Also, the songs Francis sings in the previous chapter are: 1. One More Night, by Maroon 5, because it's so FrUK, and it was stuck to my brain. 2. Sexy Back , by Timberlake or Poison, depends on what version you prefere. And 3. Turn Me On, by David Guetta, feat. Nicki Minaj. And seriously, I don't listen to that type of music. I'm more of a metal chick. But it went well with the occasion. **

**Edit: Damn, I corrected all those TERRIBLE grammatical mistakes.. Damnable third and second person... and that bloody Futur Simple and Futur Recent... And fucking brain that mixed them all up... Ugh... Anyway, thank you for the corrections, Croc'Sushi. Thank God someone noticed and told me on time... Even though it's still SO FUCKING EMBARRASSING! *curls up and dies*  
**


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